


Spare Change for Parts

by pikasafire



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikasafire/pseuds/pikasafire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Kris Letang is a robot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare Change for Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to barefoot_starz and masterpenguin for reading over this. Thanks to littlestclouds for the awesome artwork. For rpf_big_bang over on LJ.

*

For all of the media’s taunting of ‘Sidney Crosby: hockey playing robot’, Kris finds it relatively amusing that they’re so close, yet so far from the truth.

‘Kris Letang: hockey cyborg’, doesn’t have the same ring to it after all.

It’s easy enough to keep secret; it doesn’t make that much of a difference to Kris’ daily life. He flushes his oils and injects the required hormones and enzymes into his oil-track once a day, but other than that, it’s just like being a normal guy. Except no one can know.

Cyborgs aren’t technically illegal. Not that it’s been tested; on paper every guy in the league is obstinately human. Kris definitely is. It wouldn’t be worth the media shit-storm that would result if Kris’ status became public knowledge, so it’s written in his contract, in tiny print down the bottom; a secrecy clause. In exchange for enlisting engineers for Kris’ care, he has the chance to play hockey in the NHL; for Kris to do what he loves, he just has to hide who he is.

It’s not so bad, Kris thinks. It’s worth it.

*

It’s during a game against the Rangers when it happens. It’s nothing special, or exciting. Nothing that Kris hasn’t had happen dozens of times before. The Rangers are tough, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

It’s half way through the second period. Kris isn’t even sure where Avery _comes_ from. He’s only got enough warning to throw his arm up to protect his face before Avery slams him into the boards, Kris’ neck clipping the top by the Penguin’s bench as he goes down.

Something’s not right, Kris can tell immediately. He fumbles with his glove, and presses his hand to the back of his neck. It’s wet, and he can’t breathe through the panic of the knowledge that it’s not blood that’s spilling onto the ice. He tries to move, to shift a little, to try and cover the spill but his body won’t listen, the fingers of his other hand twitching uselessly and he squeezes his eyes shut. It really fucking hurts. The trainers are there in seconds as well as Anton the engineer, who’s crouching near his head, with special black towels at the ready. “Kris. Kris, can you open your eyes for me?”

He wants to say ‘no’, wants to squeeze his eyes shut until it all goes away, but Anton’s shaking his shoulder gently, talking rapidly to the trainer beside him. “We’re going to lift your head, Kris. We need to soak up the oil, okay? You’re going to be alright.” Kris tries to nod, but he can’t quite move his head right, and he forces his eyes open to see the concerned faces of his teammates staring over the boards.

“Shit. It’s everywhere. We need a fucking screen.” Anton looks up into the bench. “Some of you get out here, shield him from the fucking cameras. Someone else, cause a distraction. Do whatever it takes to keep the cameras off Kris, okay?” 

“What’s going-?” Jordan seems confused.

“Questions later,” Anton snaps.

Jordan shrugs, “I’m going to go punch Avery in the face.” And he leaps over the boards to join the fight that’s already broken out on the other side of the ice. A couple of the others race to follow.

Sid’s the first to move to screen, jumping the boards to skate to the other side of Anton, using his body to shield Kris from the prying eyes of the camera, Geno’s beside him. If either of them are horrified by the inky black that’s spreading over the ice, neither of them react, instead, turning to shove at the nosy Rangers who are skating around, trying to see what’s going on. 

“We need to get him off the ice, now.” Anton says to the trainers, and Kris isn’t comfortable with the urgency in his tone. “Kris, we need you to sit up, okay? It’s going to hurt, but we can’t do anything out here, and we don’t have the time to wait for a stretcher - not unless you want this to become public knowledge. There’s only so long we can hide the spill.” He looks up into the bench again, “Grab me some more towels, someone. Black ones, not white. Sid, help me get him sitting, okay? Geno and Pascal, I need you to screen.”

There’s hands on Kris’ shoulders, and between them, Kris is pushed upright, a pile of towels quickly dumped on the spill underneath him, another tucked into the back of his jersey to hide the stain. Anton rolls another dark towel, pressing it hard to the back of Kris’ neck. “Kris, can you hold that? Press down as hard as you can. Good, yeah. Like that.” He wipes at the ice hurriedly, until the oil is mostly gone. Kris is only vaguely aware of the commotion around him - he feels sluggish and heavy, like he’s moving underwater. He can’t move right, but there’s hands levering him up, holding him upright, skates slippery beneath his feet. “Geno, screen him from behind as we move, okay? C’mon, Kris. Hang in there, it’s only a few feet, and we’ll get you sorted.”

It’s the longest skate Kris has ever had to endure, his head is spinning, dimly aware of the respectful tapping of sticks on the ice as he passes. He stumbles over the barrier, hands on his arms still holding him upright, Kris struggling to keep conscious until he hits the tunnel.

He’s vaguely aware of the trainers fussing around him, pushing him down onto a stretcher and rearranging him limbs, numb and heavy. Anton’s shaking his shoulder, speaking above him in muffled tones, “We’re gonna knock you out, okay?” Then nothing.

*

He feels weird when he wakes up, but at least he’s not in pain.

He blinks a few times, feeling vague and disconnected. Anton’s there, a gentle hand on his chest keeping him laying down. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he jokes. “Don’t move just yet. You really did some damage there, didn’t you?”

“Fucking Avery,” Kris tries to say, the words getting stuck in his throat, slurred and jumbled.

Anton frowns, shifting so he can press his fingers to the front of Kris’ throat. “Say that again.”

Kris tries, stuttered stop-starts and broken words but a little clearer and Anton nods, “Wait til you see what Jordy did to him.” He grins, “Looks like you’ve done some damage to your squeaker. We can fix that tomorrow, alright?” He presses down on the various check-points on Kris’ body, asking routine questions about how much he can feel and move before he wipes his hands of the dark oil and pulls up a stool closer to Kris so he can see him while he talks. “Alright. You’ve crushed all the wires in the back of your neck. That’s why you can’t move very well. I’ve done a quick patch on the essentials, so you should be able to walk and function well enough until I can get Eric in from Philly to give me a hand tomorrow. We’re going to have to do a proper assessment down at the Centre.” Kris groans and Anton talks over him, “ It’s going to be pretty extensive. You’re not going to be able to play for a while.” He gives Kris a commiserating pat on the shoulder, “Sorry.”

“I hate the Centre.” Kris mutters. What else is there to say?

“I know. But you’ve done some pretty impressive damage and it’s going to be too much to do here. Now, before I go, I want to just make sure you can move. Sit up for me?” Kris winces, feeling like all his muscles have seized as he shifts, Anton’s hand on his shoulder helping him lever himself into a sitting position. “Try and keep your neck as straight as possible, alright? We’ve just covered it in a bandage for the moment, to hide the damage, so it’s going to feel weird, but let’s not do any more damage than is already done.” Anton says, “Swing your legs over the side, yeah, like that. Feel alright?” 

“Yeah.” Kris says, voice coming in stops and starts. He closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness, “Dizzy. Hurts.”

Anton gives him a reassuring smile, “Yeah, that happens when you crush all your wires. But you’ll be alright after a little bit of work. Try walking for me?” Kris manages a painful lap of the room, walking until Anton’s certain enough that he’ll be fine until tomorrow, before taking a seat back on the cot. “Looks good. It’s really all we can do for now. But, before you go, Coach wants to talk to you.” Anton says, “It’s important. Then, go home, Kris. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at ten at the Centre, okay?”

Kris tries to nod again, a feeble twitch of his head. Not that it matters, the conversation isn’t really optional. He can feel his heart race, already thinking of the horrible things that might happen. He’s off the team, it’s public knowledge, the guys don’t want to play with a robot, someone caught it on camera. there’s so many ways this might go wrong.

Bylsma steps in, worry lines etched on his forehead. “Hey Kris. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.” Kris says, but his mouth isn’t working right, the words slurred and unclear and Bylsma frowns.

“Yeah, you sound it.” He says dryly. “Look, I’d love to leave this until you’re a little better, but we have to release something. We’re waiting to see if any of it was caught on camera, but we’re just saying upper-body injury for now.”

“Okay.” Kris says, relaxing a little. That doesn’t seem too bad.

“The team’s going to have to be told,” Bylsma continues.

Kris tenses. “No” He says immediately.

Bylsma raises an eyebrow. “They’re not stupid, Kris. They know something’s up.” He says gently. “I know it’s a contract stipulation that it’s kept secret, but I think that ship has sailed. Better to come clean, don’t you think?”

“No!” Kris still remembers the last time it got out. He’d really like to avoid a repeat of that.

“Not right now, of course.” Bylsma continues, ignoring Kris’ protests. “But I know that Sidney isn’t going home until he’s seen you’re alright.” He smiles, “Good game today, Kris.”

“Did we win?” It’s garbled and Kris frowns in frustration and tries again. It’s still mixed up, broken.

“Did we win?” Bylsma repeats. Kris tries to nod and Bylsma looks at him in amused exasperation, “No. We lost 3:2. But don’t worry about that. Just get better, alright?” He reaches out, squeezes Kris’ knee reassuringly. “Don’t panic about it, Kris. They’re your teammates. They’ll understand. And I’ll talk with Ray and keep you posted, okay?” He doesn’t really wait for an answer, giving Kris a smile, “I’ll send Sid in on my way out.”

The words get stuck behind Kris’ teeth, jumbled and messy and by the time he sorts them in his mind to form a protest, Sid’s already poking his head in.

“Hey,” Sid says awkwardly, stepping through the doorway, “Coach said you were awake. I just wanted to check in.” There’s a moment’s pause, and Kris just stares at him; can’t help the tension keeping his muscles tight, his eyes automatically checking for the nearest exits. Not that there’s much chance of him being able to get away quickly with his body as broken as it is, anyway. He takes a breath, tries to stop his heart from racing nervously. It’s _Sidney_. Sidney’s about as dangerous as a rainbow. “So.” Sid says, “How are you feeling? What did the doctor say?”

“Hurt my neck.” Kris says, trying to make his words as clear as possible. They’re still mumbled and hard to understand, but Sid just nods like he hasn’t noticed, like the room isn’t full of electronics gear rather than surgical tools, like he hasn’t noticed Kris’ jersey and hair covered in oil. 

“Do you know if you’re going to be out long?”

Kris tries to shake his head, a flare of pain through his neck and he hisses through his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut until the pain dulls. “No.” He says shortly. This is the most uncomfortable conversation he’s ever had and Sid’s not going to mention it; it’s the giant fucking pink elephant in the room and Kris _doesn’t want to talk about it_. He’s tired and everything hurts and he’s going to have to come in tomorrow and have his panels opened and he really hates that, okay? He doesn’t want to have to deal with his friends turning on him because he has the goddamn misfortune to be Cyborg.

“You okay?” Sid asks, standing beside him, a hand hovering in the air, like he wants to touch Kris’ shoulder, but isn’t sure if it’s welcome.

“Fine.”

Sid’s persistent. “Have you got someone to stay with you tonight?”

“I’m _fine_. I’ve got an appointment tomorrow at the Centre. I’ll be fine until then.” His words are still messy and hard to understand, and Kris can see Sid frown, trying to figure out what he said.

“What’s the Centre?” He asks after a moment, and Kris wants to groan. He just wants to go _home_. He knows Sid probably means well, but he really doesn’t want to do this right now. He shifts, sliding off the cot with a wince. He hurts from head to toe

He can’t help but be blunt, hopes it’ll be enough to make Sid leave. “A surgery for people like me.”

Sid’s eyes widen, “You need surgery? How serious?” 

Sid just isn’t _getting it_. Kris can feel frustration swell, and he almost _wants_ Sid to just be angry about to, to shout at him or threaten him or tell him he’s not welcome anymore, not this understanding, fake bullshit. “I’m fine, Sid. I want to just go home.”

Sidney gestures to a bag at his feet. Kris’ bag, now he actually looks at it. He hadn’t even noticed Sid bringing it in. “I packed all your stuff. Did you want to, like, change? Or anything? I can help, um, if you need.”

Kris doesn’t want to do anything but go home and shower and try to forget that any of this even happened. He takes a breath, tries to be rational. He can’t go out there in his hockey gear, not to mention the fact his jersey is covered in oil, the back already mostly cut away. If someone got a photo of that, he’d be in even more trouble than he is now. “Yeah.” It hurts to move, and it’s not the first time he’s been incapacitated, but it’s always a little humiliating to have to get someone to help him dress. It hurts to bend, dizziness when he turns his head, and Sid cuts away the rest of his jersey in silence, tossing away the ruined clothes, and padding, helping him into a loose dress shirt that’s way too big. “It’s Geno’s,” Sid says quietly, shifting so Kris can button it on his own, “Um, I hope that’s okay. I figured you wouldn’t want to pull anything over your head or have anything too tight and he had a spare.” 

“Thanks.” He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about that. They were _there_ , they saw _everything_ ; Kris knows that much - there’s no way they don’t know what he is. And the fact they’re not both furious at him, that Geno’s still willing to lend him a shirt; it’s throwing him off. He pulls on some sweatpants. It’s late enough that no one’s going to be hanging around and being stylish is hardly a priority. At least those he can manage on his own. There’s an uncomfortable silence and Sid kneels down to put Kris’ shoes on for him.

“I don’t care, you know.” Sid murmurs to Kris’ trainers, almost too quiet to hear, head bowed as he ties Kris’ shoelaces, loose enough that he should be able to just kick them off without untying them when he gets home.

Kris is pretty sure he misheard. If he’s fucked up his auditory system, he’s going to be pissed. “What?”

“I don’t care.” Sidney looks up, stares at him seriously, “I don’t care that you’re Cyborg,” he stumbles over the word, “You’re still my friend.”

“Oh.” He’s not sure how willing he is to believe it just yet. He’s had people tell him they don’t care before, only to flinch when he touches them, or suddenly be completely unavailable for hanging out. Kris keeps it to himself as he stands gingerly.

Sid shoulders Kris’ bag, smiles at him tentatively. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

*

Sid leaves after fifteen million assurances that Kris’ll be _fine_ but Kris doesn’t sleep well that night. It’s not surprising - everything hurts and he tosses and turns for hours, thinking of the appointment in the morning. It’s one of those things like injections or the dentist that he knows he can’t get out of it, but there’s that lingering dread, the spike of fear when he thinks about it. What if they can’t fix him? What if he can never play again? What if they fuck it up and he loses his hockey abilities? He knows it’s an irrational fear; he’s had them done dozens of times before. Every six months as a kid - had to ensure that he’d fit in, making the gradual changes to mimic growing up. Those were necessary. And then he had the unnecessary ones; when he thought it was a good idea to climb that huge tree when he was seven. Ice skating when he was twelve. When he thought telling his so-called-best-friend the truth was a good idea. Rewirings are unpleasant and frightening, but it’s better than the alternative of not being alive at all.

At 6am he gives in, levering himself out of bed with a wince. He showers carefully, going through the long and annoying process of getting the oil out of his hair: Vegetable oil. Cornstarch. Comb. Dish liquid. Shampoo. Conditioner. It’s not fun, and the way his neck is aching by the end of it, he probably should have left it. Or just cut it all off. Would have been easier. 

He stares in the mirror when he’s done, cataloguing the damage. It looks like he’s been mauled by a dog; the panelling on the back of his neck torn and warped, the coloured strips of wires visible through the wet strands of his hair. The electronics kit is under the sink, and Kris pulls it out, grabbing a fresh wad of gauze and bandage from the top. He winds the bandage carefully around his throat, hiding the damage, the material tight and constricting. He’s going to have to take a taxi to the Centre, he realises. His car is still at the rink, (well, he _hopes_ it’s still there) and it’s not like he’s going to be allowed to drive anyway.

He half-watches television for the next few hours, muscles tense, nerves There’s a knock on the door at ten past nine, and Kris frowns. His taxi isn’t due for another half hour.

Sid stands on the doorstep, looking uncertain. “Hi.”

“Um. Hi?”

“Your appointment’s at ten, right?” Sidney holds up his keys. “You can’t drive.”

Kris just stares at him for a moment, unsure how he’s supposed to react to this.

“Uh, if that’s okay, I mean. I don’t have to come inside if you don’t want. But, I figured you weren’t going to have any other way of getting there, so...” he trails off awkwardly.

“No, no. It’s good.” His words are still garbled, but understandable, better than yesterday, and Kris steps aside to let Sid through, “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

It’s awkward in a way it’s never been before, and this is why Kris has always been okay with not telling people. He learned his lesson as a teenager, and although Sidney’s definitely unlikely to try and beat him to death like Aiden did, the uncomfortable silences and cautious words are almost as bad. He’s a fucking robot, he’s not dying of some horrible disease.

They stand uncomfortably in the hall, “Um, should we go?” Sidney asks. They’re going to be really early. The Centre is only ten minutes down the road, but Kris nods. It’s better than the idea of standing around Kris’ kitchen, making weird small talk.

The drive to the Centre is silent and Kris can feel his muscles tense in panicked worry. He fucking hates this place, hidden away on level three of a inconspicuous building downtown. The waiting room is as drab as Kris remembers and he wonders whether there’s some sort of rule that waiting rooms have to be as depressing as possible. There’s mother with a little boy in the corner, the boy sitting sullenly and picking at a sling and Kris can just make out the torn ends of wires sticking out of the bandage, where the gauze has been picked away. A man in his fifties sits across from them, staring at them and Kris shifts, uncomfortable. He’s not usually recognised in places like this, but Sidney’s considerably more famous than Kris is and wouldn’t _that_ just be a PR nightmare.

“I didn’t even know this place was here.” Sid whispers to him, looking around. There are the typical surgery pictures on the wall; how to deal with breaks and leaks. The importance of daily oil changes. Sexual health for cyborgs. Sid’s eyes linger on that last one curiously and Kris can’t help but be a little short with him.

“You’re not supposed to.” He says, “Can you imagine what people would do if they knew this place was here? It would be burnt down within hours.”

Sid just looks puzzled. “Why would they do that?”

There’s no way Sid can be that naive. Surely. Kris stares at him, “Seriously? We hate Organic people. We force children into cybernetics. We’re all serial killing psychos. We’re not natural, don’t you know?”

“But,” Sid says uncertainly, “It’s not true, right? That’s just shit that people have made up. No one actually believes that.”

Kris tries another tactic. “When I was a kid, I told my best friend. After school, he grabbed a bunch of other kids and beat the shit out of me and then left me behind the gym at school.” He watches Sid carefully, “I almost died. Two people walked past me, and as soon as they realised what I was, they kept on going. If it wasn’t for my art teacher, I wouldn’t be here. People don’t like Cyborgs, Sid.”

Sid flounders for a moment, clearly unsure about how the hell he’s supposed to respond to that. “I didn’t think you could die.” He says instead, curiosity winning out over shutting up.

“No one’s born Cyborg.” Kris is sick of this conversation already.

“How’d- I mean, what-,” Sid looks uncomfortable, “Did you choose this then?” He gestures vaguely, “the robot- I mean, the Cyborg thing, sorry.”

The slang term rolls out of Sid’s mouth, and Kris tries not to wince. It’s not like Sid means anything by it, but it stings a little anyway. He stares at his feet, “Would you ‘choose’ to be Cyborg?” Kris asks instead, trying to temper the sarcasm from his tone.

Sidney thinks for a moment, and nods, “Sure. I mean, if it meant I could keep playing hockey. Why not?”

Kris clenches his muscles in his jaw to keep from speaking, trying to keep his face blank and the sudden surge of anger in check. It’s not the first time he’s heard comments like that. They don’t _understand_. It’s like those fuckers who Kris sees on those late night talk shows some nights - the pro-Organics groups - the comments about the few Cyborgs who have come out into the public eyes, who refuse to hide who they are. The basic public perceptions out for the world to hear, to reinforce already biased views, ‘It’s not that bad for them, they’re exaggerating’, ‘it’s not discrimination, it’s a valid safety concern’, ‘they need to admit they’re second class citizens’. No one actually stops to think about what that _means_ for them. Sid has no fucking idea what it actually means to be Cyborg.

Sid seems to realise he’s stepped wrong, because he shifts, fidgeting quietly. “What happened then?” he asks, before adding hastily. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want.”

“Car accident.” Kris shrugs the best he can, his right shoulder seizing a little as he does so. Sid remains silent, staring at him expectantly. “I was five,” Kris adds after a moment.

There’s nothing really to be said after that, though Kris can tell Sid is still curious, practically jittering with questions he’s too nervous to ask. Kris is glad. It seems like a million years before Kris’ name is called. Sid stands when Kris does, and Kris pauses, wraps his hand around Sid’s wrist, “You, uh, maybe you should stay here.”

Sid stares at him, confused, “I thought you said you hate these things.”

“I do, but-” Kris struggles for the words, “It’s not pretty. It’s- My parents always hated it. It’s confronting.”

There’s a moment of silence as Sid studies his face, “I’m coming in,” he decides, “You shouldn’t be alone if you hate it. I mean, if that’s okay?”

Kris doesn’t really know how to say no to that, so he nods and lets Sid follow him into the Doctor’s office.

If Anton is surprised to see Sid with Kris, he doesn’t show it, just pulls up an extra chair to the desk. “Good to see you,” he says warmly, “take a seat.” Kris doesn’t need Anton to run through the testing they’re going to do, but he stays silent as Anton explains it, sneaking glances over at Sid, stomach tight.

“Alright. Kris, you know the drill.” Anton says eventually. Too soon.

He can’t help but watch Sid nervously as he strips awkwardly out of his t-shirt and jeans, feeling an awful lot like he’s baring more than just skin. It’s stupid; Sid’s seen him naked more times than Kris can count but here, like this, it carries more weight somehow. He can’t help but feel objectified, like Sid’s looking for signs of his cybernetics.

It’s almost like a training session. Anton asks him to run, jump, hop, balance. Testing the range of strength in each one of his limbs, tests his brain functions in tests that make Kris’ face burn when he fails. He knows it’s not his fault, but he feels inadequate for not being able to do something as simple as touching his own nose, and it’s worse for having an audience. 

Then the part that Kris dreads the most.

“Okay!” Anton says cheerfully, “Up on the table, face down. I’ve got a fair idea what needs to be fixed, but let’s have a look at what damage you’ve done.”

Kris follows the instructions, laying down with fingers curled tight around the edges of the table. He’s glad he can’t see Sid’s face. Anton’s hand is cool on his lower back and he leans in close. “Alright, Kris?” He asks quietly.

Kris nods, then winces as it pulls, verbalizing it instead. “Yeah.”

“I can ask Sid to go, if you want.” Anton says, quiet enough that Sid can’t hear, and Kris feels a surge of affection.

“S’okay,” Kris says instead, although he desperately wants to say yes.

“Okay.” Kris can feel Anton brushing his hair out of the way, finding the little port at the back of his neck, by his hairline, the sliding insertion of the key. “Ready?” Anton doesn’t wait for an answer. It’s not painful, so much as really fucking weird and Kris squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. He can feel the moment when the locks click, the shuddery feeling of the expanse of his back being removed.

“Jesus.” It’s only a little more than a whisper, but Kris can hear Sid loud and clear. He’s overcome with the feeling of humiliation, his face burning, and he’s glad Sid can’t see his face. This was a stupid fucking idea. He feels more naked than he’s ever been before, uncertain and self-conscious and if he could cover himself up, he would.

“Kris, I need you to focus, okay?” Anton says quietly, “I’m going to disengage your pain receptors, okay? I’m gonna have to poke around a bit.”

“Okay.” Kris has the very, very vague memories of getting stitches when he was about four and still Organic; the sharp sting of the anesthetic and the bizarre, numb feeling of the stitching needle painlessly piercing his skin. Having his receptors disrupter always reminds him a little of that. It should hurt and it doesn’t and it’s nauseating and confusing.

There’s silence for a while but for the clink of Anton’s tools. Then, “Lift your right foot up for me, Kris.” It’s bizarre being able to feel Anton’s hands shifting wires, tugging and pulling at tubes and levers. Kris tries to follow the direction, movements sluggish and uncomfortable. “Good, good. Alright, now your left... Excellent.”

It’s an hour of weird, tedious instructions and the tugging feeling of someone else controlling his limbs and Kris is exhausted by the time Anton finishes, clicking Kris’ back panel back into place. They settle at the desk again, waiting while Anton throws his oil stained gloves in the trash, his summary of Kris’ injuries clutched in his hand as he settles in his chair. He gets straight to the point. “We’re going to have to completely rewire, Kris. I’ve fixed a few little things, but you need a complete overhaul. That hit has caused damage to most of your major systems that can’t just be patched.”

Kris stares down at his feet, swallows hard to try and speak through the giant lump in his throat. “Yeah. Figured.”

“We can fix it all, don’t worry.” Anton says, voice gentle and apologetic, “I’m sorry, I know you hate them, but it’s the only thing we can do. The damage is too extensive. I’ll make an appointment for you, for Monday, alright? It’ll take a while, I’ll have to send away for some parts.”

“Okay.” There’s nothing else to really say. Sid is still worryingly quiet next to him and Kris stands, hissing a little as the movement sends a spike of pain down his arm. “I guess I’ll see you Monday then.” Anton doesn’t seem bothered by Kris’ curt tone, and Kris takes a deep breath, “Thanks.”

Anton just gives him a sympathetic smile. “Hang in there,” he says. Kris is already getting pretty sick of people telling him that.

*

Sid is unusually quiet on their way out of the clinic. “You okay?” Kris’ asks. His chest feels tight and it has nothing to do with his fucked up wiring.

“Yeah.” Sid gives a fake smile. It looks more like a grimace. “I’m fine.” A pause. “How are you?”

Kris’ stomach sinks. He knew this would happen, he’d _prepared_ for this happening, but now, with Sid being weird next to him, the churning of his stomach, he’s only just realised how much he was hoping that maybe Sid would be different. “Fine.”

“That was... intense.” Sid offers, when they’re both in the car, driving back to Kris’, “I can see why your parents didn’t like it.”

“I’m sorry.” Kris says automatically. “I shouldn’t have let you come in-” he can’t not say it, he _can’t_ , his voice quiet and mumbled, “I thought you’d be okay with it. Me, I mean.”

“What?” Sid looks startled, swerves off the road to stop abruptly against the curb and turns to face him. “What? No! it’s not you. What the hell? I don’t care if you’re a fucking unicorn, you’re still my friend. It’s just … hard to see, alright? It’s pretty obvious you don’t like it and it’s...” he searches for the right word. “It’s just a little weird.”

Kris shrugs, wishes that he’d sent Sid home and just taken the goddamn cab to the Centre. He can’t help feeling like there’s another shoe to drop.

Sid takes a breath, and Kris steels himself. Here it is.

“You’ll have to tell the team.” Sid says in a rush.

“Sid-”

“I’m talking as Captain here, Kris. They have a right to know - they all know something’s up. Better to hear it from you than from me.”

Kris stays silent. He doesn’t really know what to say. He can’t tell the team, he _can’t_. It’s in his _contract_ and he can’t risk that more than he already has, no matter what Bylsma says - he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t play hockey. And it’s not like he can just go to another team. There aren’t many teams that will be as accommodating as the Penguins management have been.

“Kris-” Sid must see the look on his face, because he reaches out, awkward as ever, his hand hovering a moment before settling on Kris’ shoulder in a way Kris thinks is supposed to be comforting. “I’m not going to make you do it alone. I’ll be there too. And if anyone has a problem with it, they’re going to have to go through me. I promise.”

It’s not that easy. Kris thought the same thing about Aiden, who was giving him a hard time, demanding to know why he hadn’t grown, why he always looked the same, why he was always so careful when they played sports. It was stupid, but he was fifteen, and this was his _best friend_ \- Aiden would look past it, Kris _knew_ it. He required more than a rewiring when all that was said and done - a new school, a new town, new friends on top of the new body that had to be constructed after discovering how ‘not okay’ with it Aiden was. He doesn’t want to have to go through that again. Not with his teammates. And not just because Kris isn’t quite so sure he’d walk away from that one. Sid’s still looking at him expectantly. “It’s not that easy-” Kris tries.

“Sure it is.” Sid says immediately, squeezing his shoulder, “I mean, I know you’re used to it being secret and all, but, they’re _the guys_ , y’know? They’re not going to care. They _know_ you.”

You never really know how someone’s going to react to news like ‘your teammate is Cyborg’, and it’s never been so obvious how sheltered Sidney has been. “Sid-”

“You have to tell them, Kris. It’s not fair on them. They _know_ something’s up - wouldn’t it be better to tell them yourself? They’re going to figure it out sooner or later. Sooner is more likely. That wasn’t blood on those towels, man. And they know it.”

The thought that it’s not an option makes his mechanical heart stammer in his chest, his brain sending the automatic signals to release the adrenaline compound into his oils. He can feel his breaths sharp and painful in his artificial lungs. Who knew a Cyborg could hyperventilate? 

“Kris. Jesus, relax, okay?” The panic in Sid’s voice isn’t helping. “We’ll get through it. It’s not a big deal, just calm down.”

Kris just shakes his head, his heart pounding, and the worst part is that Kris knows that Sid’s right. The team knows something’s up, and they have to be told. And Sid has no fucking idea what he’s forcing Kris to do.

“Look,” Sid says after a moment, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on Kris’ shoulder. “Just think about it okay? I’ll take you home and we’ll have a beer and play some video games or something and we won’t talk about it anymore.” He waits for Kris to nod before starting the car, “Just... don’t panic, okay?”

Kris nods again, closing his eyes and settling back against the seat, his nerves still ratcheted sky high. Between the wiring and this stupid fucking demand to spill his secret to a bunch of guys who could kill him with their bare hands, yeah, he’s _fine_.

The next few hours are blissfully free of any talk of being Cyborg or prying, curious questions or talk about telling the guys. They order pizza for a late lunch, eating quietly and watching the Sabres play the Sens on tv. It’s peaceful and quiet and it’s almost enough to make Kris relax a little, forget the way his shoulder catches, the way it’s difficult to move his hands.

“I should go,” Sid says a few hours later, gathering his keys and standing. He hesitates. “We have a game tonight. But, come to practice tomorrow. They guys are going to want to see you’re alright.”

“I’m _not_ -”

“Please.”

And Kris hates the way he folds, the way he can’t really deny Sidney anything - not after what he’s done today - and his shoulders slump. He doesn’t really have a choice. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Sid grins, leans in to give him an awkward one armed hug, “You’ll see,” He says, “They’re not going to care.”

Kris gives him a weak smile in return. Maybe. Maybe not.

*

The walk from the car to the locker-room has never seemed so long before in his life. Sidney’s practically vibrating next to him, and they’re stopped by almost everyone they pass on their way in, asking Kris in concerned tones if he’s feeling any better. Kris smiles and nods and pretends to himself that they’d all act exactly the same way if they knew the truth. It’s a pretty lie.

The locker room is noisy and crowded as usual, the guys all gearing up for practice. 

Fleury spots them first. “Tanger!” Flower holds his hand up for a high five, “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” Kris says, truthfully. “But, I’ll be out for a while yet.”

“Yeah, Coach said. Fuck, that sucks. Did you catch last night’s game anyway?”

Tanger shakes his head, winces a little at the pull, “Nah. Tried, but couldn’t stay awake. Sid told me that we won though,” He fistbumps Fleury’s glove, both of them ignoring the way it almost doesn’t connect. “Good one.” 

Flower just grins, leans down to secure his pads. “Just come in to watch practice?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Making sure you guys don’t forget about me.” It’s not exactly a lie.

“I’d need years of therapy to do that.” Flower quips, standing to pull his practice jersey over his head. He bumps Kris gently with his shoulder as he shuffles past, gives him a beaming smile, “Good to see you, man.”

It’s not like Kris can participate, and he watches from the bench as the guys run their drills. Most of them come over at some point to poke Kris with their sticks, make fun of him or say hi and Kris lets their friendly overtures bolster him a little, lets himself hope that maybe, just _maybe_ Kris is wrong about them. 

Sid is one of the last to skate over to the bench, his cheeks red from the cold. “Spoke to coach. All’s good. After practice, okay?” He squeezes Kris’ shoulder with his gloved hand, “I’ll be right there.”

Kris just nods. The choice isn’t exactly in his hands any more.

They’re laughing and chirping each other as they all enter the locker room after practice, noisy and bewildering as usual and Kris watches from his stall as Sid and Bylsma enter, Kris’ stomach clenching in nervous anticipation.

“Guys!” Bylsma’s not a loud guy, but they all settle to a quiet murmur. Bylsma waits until they’re all paying attention before speaking. “Good practice, everyone. We have the Caps on Tuesday. I want you all ready to play. Optional skate tomorrow at ten, otherwise, be back here at five on Tuesday for warm up.” There’s a quiet murmur of assent. “As far as injuries go, Kennedy’s a scratch, and Kris will be out until further notice,” Everyone turns to look at him and Kris tries not to shrink back against his stall. “Kris?”

It’s now or never. Quite frankly, Kris would rather go with never, but everyone’s staring at him expectantly. He swallows, trying to force down the lump in his stomach, slow the hammering of his heart. “Um. You probably all noticed on Friday, after Avery hit me. That-” He falters. This isn’t how he wanted to do this. “It’s-” He’s panicking, feeling cornered. “I’m Cyborg.” he says instead, feeling a whole lot like he’s about to vomit.

There’s silence for a moment. “Avery hit you hard enough to _kill you_.” Nealer demands incredulously.

“What?” Kris is confused, “No. I’ve always been.” He’s careful not to repeat the word Cyborg, “I’ve always been like this.” He pauses, “Um. Since I was five.”

“And you’re only telling us now?” It’s muttered and quiet and Kris can’t quite pinpoint who says it or whether he was supposed to hear and so says nothing, staring down at his hands.

Bylsma waits a few beats, but when no one else speaks, he breaks the silence. “Kris wasn’t allowed to tell you,” he says quietly. “And I’m going to assume that this isn’t going to be a problem for anyone in this room. Kris has been subjected to and passed all requisite testing by League approved engineers.” He looks around the room carefully, “If there _is_ a problem, you come to me or you talk to Sid. Kris is part of the team and I expect you to continue to treat him as such. I’m assuming it remains unsaid that this is to remain secret.” The locker room is silent. “Alright, that’s all. I’ll see you all either tomorrow or Monday.”

It takes a few moments for the murmuring to start as everyone goes back to their conversations, more subdued than usual. Kris can feel the stares of his teammates and so keeps his eyes firmly on the ground, the prickling of shame down his spine. But there’s been no outrage, no pitchforks and shouting, and he’s not sure if he should be relieved or anxious. He glances up, just once, and Flower’s staring at him from across the room, eyes unreadable. He looks away when he meets Kris’ eyes, busying himself with the laces on his skates and Kris’ stomach sinks. He knows not everyone is going to be okay with it, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

People are starting to move, packing up to leave and Kris kind of wishes he wasn’t sitting so close to the door. The first time one of them squeezes his shoulder as they pass, Kris flinches. The look of hurt on Pascal’s face when Kris looks up makes him feel like the worst person ever.

“Just wanted to say ‘get better soon’,” Pascal says, removing his hand quickly and looking uncomfortable. “I wasn’t- I don’t- ”

“Thanks,” Kris interrupts, feeling awkward, “Sorry, I-” there’s no way to really finish that sentence, so he just kind of shrugs and gives him a smile, “Thank you. It means a lot.”

Engel and Cookie are the next two to come over, give him a smile and a fistbump on their way out, and with each guy who passes, Kris feels a little lighter, the smiles coming a little easier. It doesn’t stop it from stinging when a few of the guys leave without meeting his eyes, the few who simply eye him warily on their way out, but it helps.

Soon enough it’s just Kris, Sid and Flower, and Flower looks over at Sidney and shoulders his backpack, heading to the door. He stops in front of Kris, kicks lightly at Kris’ shin. “You’re a prick.” he says. “No, really. I mean it. What the fuck?” But he’s smiling now, and Kris relaxes, relief palpable.

“I wish I could have told you,” he says, and it’s not quite true, but Flower doesn’t have to know that.

“Asshole,” He leans down, gives Kris an awkward one armed hug. “Having a rewire soon then?”

“What?” Kris pulls away, stares at him, startled and Flower rolls his eyes.

“You’re not the only one in the world, you know.” Flower says, “You’re not that special, Tanger.”

Kris isn’t entirely sure what to do with this information. “Who?”

“My cousin, Delphine.” Flower shrugs, “Horse riding accident when she was twelve.” 

It should really be that surprising, Cyborgs aren’t rare by any stretch of the imagination. Uncommon, sure, but he should have realised he’d have teammates who were familiar with it. “Monday,” he says simply, and Flower squeezes his shoulder.

“Give me a call, let me know how it goes, alright?” And he gives Kris another playful kick as he leaves. “Fuck-face.”

For a few minutes, Kris doesn’t move, stunned into silence, and it’s not until Sid sits next to him, nudges his shoulder as they sit side-by-side in the empty locker room, that Kris speaks. “Thanks,” he says, and if his voice is a little hoarse and emotional, he can blame it on the wiring. He hopes Sid knows what he means; how grateful he is, but he doesn’t know if he can express it without embarrassing himself more than he already has.

Sid just laughs, elbowing him gently. “C’mon.” He says, giving Kris a smile, “Home.”

*

Kris isn’t surprised when he doesn’t sleep well again Sunday night, the relief of knowing that his teammates don’t despise him tempered by the inevitability of his rewiring in the morning. He resigns himself to a sleepless night, curled up on the couch watching infomercials. It’s mind-numbing, and boring, but it’s better than panicking (even though by morning, he’s pretty convinced he needs at least three Snuggies and one of those kitchen blender things.)

Kris probably shouldn’t be nearly as surprised as he is when the doorbell rings in the morning, and Sid’s on the other side, rugged up, his cheeks pink from the cold.

“Don’t you have optional skate?” Kris asks, without even saying hello.

Sid shrugs, a hint of a blush on his cheeks, “Well, it’s _optional_. And this seemed more important.” It’s almost defensive.

Kris’ mouth feels a bit dry and he can feel his own face burn. “Thanks.”

They stand awkwardly for a moment. “Can I come in?” Sid asks after a moment.

“Oh! Yeah, sure.” Kris steps to the side, and for a moment they kind of just stare at each other, and Kris can’t quite figure out why this is _so weird_. It’s Sidney, and Kris has no fucking idea why Sid’s being so... _nice_ about all this, why he’s so earnest to be there, but Kris is grateful for it nonetheless.

“Coffee?” Sid asks, looking like he’s itching to _do_ something that doesn’t involve long silences with nothing to say.

Kris gestures, “Go for it.”

“Want one?”

“Can’t.” Kris says, back to feeling awkward, “Gotta fast for the wiring.”

“Oh.” Sid looks a little at loose ends, and Kris can’t _take_ the strange little small talk, and so he changes the topic to the one thing he can’t fuck up.

“How do you think we’re going to go against the Flyers tomorrow?” He asks, watching Sid fumble with the overcomplicated coffee machine that Kris still hasn’t figured out.

Sid brightens, “We’re going to crush them.” He says decisively. “I talked to Coach about it; I think if we change up the lines, be more aggressive rather than defensive, we’ll be better.”

“Flower hates playing the Flyers,” Kris points out, his shoulders relaxing as the conversation turns into safer territory.

They chat about inconsequential things, chirping each other good naturedly, and for an hour, it’s like it used to be, before this stupid accident.

Then Sid looks up at the clock, shoves his hand in his pocket to pull out the keys, “We should probably go,” he says almost apologetic, “We’ll be late otherwise,” and Kris tries not to over-analyse the use of ‘we’, the way that Sid seems to understand and the way that knowing that makes his chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with his faulty wiring.

It only takes them ten minutes to get to the Centre, driving silently as Kris worries at the hem of his hoodie, pulling the threads until they’re frayed and tangled. Sid’s a quiet, reassuring presence next to him, and Kris stays quiet until his name is called, snags Sidney’s wrist as he stands. “Are you sure?” Kris asks, “This is going to be worse than last time. A lot worse.” He stumbles over the words, but he needs to make sure that Sid understands, “They have to take everything out, Sid.”

Sid meets his eyes, unflinching. “I’m coming in with you.” he says, and Kris suppresses the urge to hug him, a grateful nod and smile. He doesn’t want Sidney to see, but he wants to be on his own even less, and if Sid dealt with it last time, then maybe he’ll be okay this time.

Anton leads them to a different room this time, and Kris glances over at Sid as they enter. This isn’t an assessment room, this is a surgical theatre - daunting and confusing, a horrifying assortment of drills and saws and metal. Anton just smiles, directs them to a seat across from the desk in the corner, Eric already sitting on the other side.

“Right, Kris. You know Eric. Eric, this is Sidney, Sidney, Eric. Okay, Kris. We want to get started as soon as possible; it’s going to take a while. Now, is Sidney staying for this?”

Kris gives Sid a sideway glance and nods, feeling anxious. “He can leave at any time, if he wants, right?”

Sid shoots him a look but remains silent.

“Of course.” Anton says. “Alright. Shall we get started? I’ll explain things as we go, okay? Kris, take your clothes off, just leave them on the chair. Bandages too. Sid, if you want to come over here, I’ll put you near Kris’ head, alright? He’ll be conscious, so you’ll be able to talk to him.” Anton smiles, “Kris really hates these, so he’ll probably appreciate it.”

Kris moves over to the side of the room and strips off, feeling self conscious in a way he doesn’t in the locker room. He keeps his eyes downcast as he crosses to the middle, levers himself onto the table and twists so he’s laying face down, his head slotting into a hole in the metal; it’s a weird hybrid of massage table and operating table, and it’s one of the most uncomfortable things Kris has ever had the misfortune to lie on. He can feel Anton or Eric fussing by his feet, arranging the straps around his ankles so when the table is tilted, he won’t slip off.

This whole thing is going to suck.

Kris can see Sidney’s feet, Sid’s chair pulled close to the operating table, and he jumps a little at the touch on his hair. “Alright?” Sid asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Kris’ voice is hoarse, he’s aware he’s shaking a little; he’s not convincing anyone. Sid doesn’t call him on it, tiny strokes of his fingers on the back of Kris’ head. It’s soothing, and Kris relaxes a little at the touch, takes a deep breath.

“Okay, Kris. We’re all set. Ready?” Anton doesn’t wait for an answer and Sidney’s hand disappears, replaced by the cool feeling of Anton’s fingers at the base of his skull, pressing the key into place. Kris whimpers a little as his back plate detaches, the strange feeling of air against his wires. “Okay, Kris, we’ll start with this for now. We can’t turn the pain receptors off just yet, okay, but this shouldn’t hurt too much. It’ll just feel weird.”

Kris hates this. Really fucking hates it. They used to knock him out for them, for the full transplants into bigger bodies. He remembers the first time without them putting him to sleep, just after he first started playing hockey. He was seven years old, skating on a pond rink down in the park with some friends. A rough patch on the ice and he’d face-planted into some rocks, tore a bunch of wiring in his arms. It was the first time he realised what being Cyborg _meant_ \- the way the other kids on the ice skated away from him, the way no-one tried to help. He’d been so confused, gone to the closest adult for help, just as he’d been taught. But they ran away from him, or they ignored him, and there was oil leaking all over the ice, staining it inky black. Kris had walked home like that, a sparse trail following him home, his limbs getting more sluggish and tough to shift the longer he walked. He doesn’t remember getting to the hospital, but he can remember the way they pulled the plates from his arm, the first proper look he ever got at what he looked like under his synthetic skin. The first time he realised that it wasn’t _blood_.

Anton’s a prick of a liar because the tugging really fucking hurts, and Kris grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut and balls his fists.

“Want me to talk at you?” Sid asks quietly. There’s the piercing sound of a drill in Kris’ ears, and his breaths are shallow and panicked. There’s no room for pride here, and so he nods, grateful when Sid’s fingers shift again to rest against the very edge of the table, fingertips brushing over Kris’ hair. “Alright. I’ll tell you about my peewee hockey team. God, we were awful.”

Kris can’t help but huff a bit of a laugh at that, his heart still hammering, “Sidney Crosby bad at hockey,” He jokes, voice shaking, “Blasphemy.”

“Right?” Sid says, a smile in his voice. “I was the smallest, and the youngest and so they tried to put me in net.” Kris huffs a laugh, “I know.” Sid continues, “It was actually worse than what you’re probably imagining. I was terrible. Couldn’t stop a puck to save my life-” He keeps talking, and Kris lets the words wash over him, focuses on Sidney’s words rather than the sharp pain down his spine.

It’s interminable, and by the time they’re done, he’s only partially conscious, his brain sluggish and disconnected. He’s vaguely aware of being turned over, pulled upright and Sid in front of him, coaxing him to stand. He can feel himself only partially voluntarily falling forward, pressing his face to the crook of Sidney’s neck. There are hands on his skin, sliding arms into a shirt, lifting his feet to slide on some pants. Kris stays still and lets them take care of him, feeling physically and emotionally spent, focussing on his breathing, on the fact it’s _over_ ; he takes a deep calming breath, and another. With each breath, his mind clears a little, but not enough to understand the murmur of conversation over his head. Sidney’s talking, Kris can tell by the vibrations against his nose, but can’t quite bring himself to pay attention to the words. He’s safe. It’ll be okay.

*

It’s dark, the light of the alarm clock numbers casting a sickly green glow across his nightstand. Kris blinks a few times up staring at the numbers in confusion. 10.34pm. He lies motionless for a few minutes, trying to piece together how he got here, scattered in his memory.

The rewiring. Sid. Sid brought him home.

He’s reluctant to move; to see what’s been fixed and what hasn’t. If he stays here, lying still in the semi-dark, then he doesn’t have to know. And if he doesn’t know, then everything’s perfect, right? The noise from the television filters in through the thin bedroom door, and Kris sighs. Sid’s out there, waiting for him, Kris swallows through the tight feeling in his chest. Naive, stupid, ridiculous Sidney with his stupid baseball cap and soft mouth. Sidney who _doesn’t care_.

With that thought held close, he struggles to a sitting position, the raw tenderness of new wiring, the staticky feeling of new routes under his synthetic skin. He stands carefully, stretching his limbs one by one, checking the range of motion. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, and he picks it up carefully, checking the tension in his fingers, hands, wrists. He fumbles a little, cool water spilling over his hand, and he grimaces. 

He feels... not quite right, and the realisation that he’s not magically _better_ is crushing enough that his breath catches in his throat. He swallows, blinks back the swell of frustration. It was never going to be that easy, but the knowledge that it’s not over and that he’s going to have to do it _again_ is enough to make him want to crawl back into bed.

But Sidney’s waiting and so Kris takes another deep breath, and opens the door, heading to the living room.

“Oh, hey. Kris.” Sid jumps to his feet, “Hi. You’re awake.”

Kris stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Yeah. Just woke up.”

There’s a moment’s pause before Sidney speaks. “Um, I wasn’t sure how you’d feel, but I made you some food.” He seems to realise what he said and hesitates, “I mean, you eat, right? Like, I’ve seen you eat.”

Kris doesn’t technically need to, though his body is capable of processing it. It’s habit more than anything else, something else he does to fit it. Kris doesn’t know whether to laugh or not, so he kinda just shrugs, “Yeah, I eat. Thanks.” It’s easier than explaining it.

Sid just looks uncomfortable. “It’s just a sandwich. Like, I’m not so good at the cooking thing. I thought about getting takeout, but, I couldn’t remember what you liked. And then I didn’t know how long you’d sleep for, so I didn’t want to make anything hot.”

“It’s fine.” Kris grabs the plate from the kitchen and sits down next to Sidney, glad for something to do with his hands. The sports channel is on quietly in the background, and Kris keeps his eyes glued on it. It’s some football game, and Kris really doesn’t know the first thing about it, but it’s better than acknowledging the way Sid is staring at him, fidgeting on the other end of the couch.

“So, how are you feeling?” Sid asks when Kris is done, holding his hand out for the empty plate and moving it to the coffee table.

Kris shrugs, tries to ignore the little twang that radiates down his neck. “Yeah. Okay.”

“All fixed?”

It’s - no.” There’s not much point in lying about it. “Feels weird. Not quite right.”

“Shit.”

They sit in silence for the next little while, both of them staring, unseeing at the television. Then Sid speaks. “Can I see? Where the key-” he trails off with a vague gesture to the back of his head. It’s quiet, and for a moment, Kris thinks he imagined it. But Sid’s still looking over at him, uncomfortable but determined.

“Uh.” What is he supposed to say to that?

“It’s okay if you say no,” Sid adds quickly, “I was just wondering.”

“Uh. Sure, okay.” It’s not like Sid has asked for anything major, but, moving over on the couch and turning his back, the feeling of Sid’s fingers brushing the ribbing of his t-shirt, gently against his neck, Kris isn’t sure if this is such a great idea. It’s intimate and strange and there’s butterflies in his stomach. He feels exposed; Sid’s hand pressing down, almost questioning at the base of his neck and Kris lets his head fall forward in unspoken permission, feeling the tickle as Sid brushes Kris’ hair out of the way. His finger run up the line of vertebrae, gently probing for the little node that Sid knows is there, the tiny circle at the base of Kris’ skull.

“It’s like there’s almost nothing there,” Sid says, voice a quiet murmur, his free hand resting on Kris’ shoulder, his thumb sweeping back and forth over the skin just by the collar of his t-shirt. “Does it hurt?”

Kris makes a little negative noise in the back of his throat, trying to ignore the jolts of pleasure down his spine. It feels good, _really_ good. He’s never had someone touch him there before, just because they could. He’s never had someone who _knows_ who didn’t want to stay at least three feet away at all times, as though Cybernetics were catching. He realises he hasn’t really answered Sid’s question, “No,” he murmurs, swallowing. “It’s okay.” This is crossing a line, and Sid probably doesn’t even realise what he’s doing.

Sid’s fingers poke a little lower, running warm lines down the side of Kris' neck and he shifts closer, close enough that Kris can feel Sid's breath on his skin. Kris can tell what he's looking for, even as Sid pulls at the collar of Kris' shirt, running his fingertips across the top of his shoulder. "There's no join." Sid says, still tugging to get a better look. “Can I see?”

And Kris _knows_ it’s a terrible idea, has no idea what the hell is happening right now, a weird tension between them but he reaches behind his head to pull his t-shirt off anyway. Sidney doesn’t wait to ask for permission, tracing his fingers down the line of Kris’ side, where the plate breaks away. “Where does it come away?” Sid asks, puzzled. And there shouldn’t be anything weird about this, not when they all spend so much time around each other naked, but this is different, a different kind of nudity and it’s making Kris’ pulse race. 

“It’s, um, a kind of silicone.” Kris says, trying to ignore the touches on his skin, keep his voice steady. “If it’s been cut, it kind of rejoins itself when it touches.”

There’s a pause and Kris wants to turn around, see the expression on Sid’s face but doesn’t want to move - do _anything_ to discourage the hands on his skin. "Huh," Sid says. "That's kinda cool."

It's silent for a moment, Sid making no movement to shift away, hands still touching and Kris has a lot of patience and willpower, but he's still mostly human, his body reacting, releasing the compounds into his oils to make his skin heat, his dick twitch in his sweats..

“You’re warm.”

Kris frowns a little, trying to parse Sid’s meaning. “Yeah.”

“I mean. You don’t have blood, right? Why-” he breaks off, like he suddenly realises that maybe what he’s asking is rude, but can’t quite halt his curiosity enough to stop, “Why are you warm if you don’t need to be?”

“My body is like any machine,” Kris says, “It generates heat.” He can't take it anymore, twists so he can face Sid properly, hyper-aware of the way their thighs touch, the tiny space between their faces and Kris presses his fingers to the back of Sid’s arm, “And there’s, um. Heating pads in the skin.”

Sid doesn’t move away, close enough that Kris can feel Sid’s breath on his face when he speaks. “But... why?”

Kris resists the urge to squirm but can feel the embarrassment, simmering low in his stomach. He can’t quite make himself meet Sid’s eyes and he shrugs, like it’s nothing important. “To be like everyone else.” he says quietly. 

Sid is silent for a moment. “Oh.”

And if neither of them make an effort to move away from each other, it’s not like they have to talk about it.

*

Sid’s weird. It’s something that Kris has known for pretty much as long as he’s known Sid, really. But, even by Sidney’s normal standards, this is pretty weird. It’s not strange enough that Kris can even call him on it, but when he wakes up in the morning, and there’s a text on his cell, a little _‘hope ur feeling better today. want some company later?’_ from Sidney, Kris feels a little sick. It’s not like Sid was cold to him before. They hung out sometimes, when Geno was busy, or when Flower was off doing weird goalie things that Kris is really happier not knowing about. But, it wasn’t anything like this; this constant stream of attention or texts, and it just makes him nervous. Sid’s an awesome guy, and Kris likes him a lot. Too much, really, and this whole acceptance is making this stupid teenage crush on Sid worse.

But there’s that little lingering doubt in the back of Kris’ mind. There’s people out there who like Cyborgs. A lot. Like, _really a lot_. And he knows that Sid isn’t one of them, _can’t_ be one of them, but it’s almost easier to understand Sid’s complete acceptance of him, of what he _is_ , if there’s a reason like that behind it.

He watches the others in a couple of times a week in practice. For the most part, they smile at him, one or two will ask how he’s doing. It’s pretty much just like it was before - there might be a few extra glances thrown his way, some hesitant looks and shying away, but it’s nothing Kris can’t ignore. Jordy’s out for the time being with a concussion, chattering next to him about some stupid prank that he pulled on Eric, but Kris isn’t paying attention, wistfully watching Sidney skate.

“Hey, Kris.” Sid skates over, cheeks red from the cold, "Don’t forget you’ve got your appointment at four today.”

Kris rolls his eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

Sid just grins at him, “Mind if I come?”

"Sure." Kris forces a smile, stomach clenched. He can't give up this easy acceptance - no matter the reason for it.

Kris chats to Flower after practice, can't help the buoyant happiness at knowing Flower doesn't hate him, knowing that the guys _know_. Not that its going to change much - Kris will still hide his oils and his flush gear, but not having to be paranoid about it is a weight off his chest. They’re arguing about 'Alien' again; a film that Flower will insist on genius and Kris will continue to call a pile of crap. It’s not really that he has anything against it, but riling Flower up is always entertaining.

"Must be more that just crossed wires in that dumb mechanical skull of yours," Flower says good naturedly, rapping him gently on the head.

" _Fleury_." Both Kris and Flower look up, startled. no one ever calls Flower 'Fleury', not unless it’s the media. Sid's stands over them, and he looks pissed. "A word, please.”

Flower looks at Kris, then up at Sid. “Uh. Okay?” shooting Kris a bewildered look as he stands. Kris doesn’t bother going anywhere, stuffing bits of paper into Flower’s skate as he waits.

It’s not long, “What the fuck is going on between you two?” Flower says, eyes wide when he returns. “Seriously. What. The. Fuck?”

“What did he say?” Kris can’t help but ask. He feels a little like a fourteen year old girl waiting to hear from his fucking _crush_ or something, nervous anticipation. 

Besides, it’s not often Flower is genuinely dumbstruck. “He pretty much told me that if he ever heard me calling you anything referring to your ‘condition’” He puts air-quotes around it with an eyeroll, “Yeah, he fucking called it that - he’d make sure I was benched.”

Kris tries not to smile. “And what did you say?”

“I said I’d keep my mouth shut. What else would I say?”

It’s not really that funny, but Kris can’t help laughing helplessly at the look on Flower’s face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mind, you know. I like that no one’s treating me like a freak.”

“Except Sidney.”

“He’s a freak himself,” Kris points out, grinning.

Flower just rolls his eyes, “You’re both fucking weird. And that’s coming from a _goalie_.” 

It's hard to be mad about it, Sid _defending his honour_ and all, and Kris is still smiling as they leave the rink, driving down to the Centre.

The good feeling doesn’t last long, replaced by the much more familiar feeling of dread as they walk into the cold, drab waiting room of the Centre. They’re waved straight through. Anton smiles at them as they walk in, closing the door behind them. He’s not the kind of guy to waste time with pleasantries, so he gestures for Kris to take his shirt off as he enters, Sid standing awkwardly to the side. “How are you feeling?” Anton asks, even as he runs his fingers over Kris' joints, checking the range and mobility.

“Uncomfortable. It’s,” Kris searches for the words, “Not right?” he shrugs, unable to come up with a better description. He searches for detail instead. “Um. My right arm’s twitching every once in a while, if I don’t keep moving it and I keep dropping things. And foods don’t taste right?”

"Hmm," Anton pokes a little at Kris' right shoulder with a frown, “Not right how?”

“Um. I had some eggs. And they tasted like peanut butter.” He waits for the raised eyebrow and sighs, “No, there was no peanut butter on them.”

“Not hugely complicated then,” he gives Kris a smile, “Just some little tweaks. But you’ll be out for a while longer i’m afraid.”

Kris was expecting that, so he limits his complaining to a muttered curse under his breath. Anton has the time, and it’s nothing hugely complicated, so Anton simply gestures for Kris to finish undressing. “Sid staying for this one?” Anton asks under his breath as he waits for Kris to strip.

Kris nods, then gives an awkward half-shrug, “I guess.”

The look Anton gives him is a mixture between amused and sad, “Just be careful, alright.” he murmurs, then a little louder. “All set? This should only take about fifteen minutes.”

He’s got to be awake again for this one, tilted awkwardly forward, on a semi vertical version of a massage table, his head, arms and legs secured tightly with velcro straps. His heart is racing, his stomach churning unpleasantly. Sid stands in front of him, dragging a stool over so they’re at eye level.

“Hey,” he says softly with a smile, “This is a little familiar.” He reaches up to pet gently at the back of Kris’ head, and it’s a little weird this time, when Kris can actually see Sid’s face. A little too intimate, and so he squeezes his eyes shut, concentrates on breathing until Anton’s voice is behind him, the usual “Ready?” just before the key is turned.

Rewiring without pain receptors attached is much more pleasant, the occasional painless tug and pull and Sid’s talking to him quietly, stories from Juniors, from the Olympics - little pointless anecdotes that Kris lets wash over him.

Then they tap _something_ and it’s like being smacked in the face and he gasps, struggles a little against the restraints. “Arrête!” Something’s wrong and they’re _not stopping_ , he tries to move his head, yank himself away from the pain.

“Whoa, Kris! Stop!”

“Ça suffit!”

Sid’s right there, his hand tangled in Kris’ hair, forcing him still, talking in low urgent tones and it’s taking Kris far too long to stop, he _can’t understand_ , his heart hammering in his chest, eyes wide.

"- stop, Kris! Its okay!" It’s like hearing something through lead, muffled and hard to understand.

"Kris? Kris, I need you to look at me, c'mon." Sid's face replaced in Kris' vision by Anton's. "Calm down and tell me what happened. Explain it to me."

It feels like his brain's been put through a blender and he can’t find the words. He’s not aware he’s talking until Anton’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing gently, “In English, Kris.”

Kris sorts through the words in his head, but it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack, French crowding his brain and he shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge them. “French.” He finds, repeating it helplessly as he searches for more words. “Head. French.” He thinks a little longer. “All French.” He squeezes his eyes shut, “Hurts.” 

“Alright, alright. Relax.” There’s another string of words that Kris can’t really understand, but he nods anyway, as much as he can and he can feel Anton shifting behind him, slotting his covers back in place and then he’s gone.

He must make some sort of noise because Sid’s fingers are back, stroking his hair. “Anton’s gone to make a phone call,” Sid says. “Calling Eric.”

It’s takes Kris a worryingly long time to decipher what Sid said and Kris closes his eyes, swallows hard, trying to focus on not having a heart attack, his pulse racing. It’ll be nothing, it’s just his language centres, that’s all. They’ve just been scrambled or jammed or something, but there’s a terrifying void where ‘English’ should be, and Kris has had these rewirings so many times before and this has never happened. It’s hard not to be terrified.

Sid’s still talking, and Kris concentrates on the words, trying to recall the meanings to memory. It’s hard, but he’s getting about every fifth word, then every third. It makes his head hurt trying to focus. What the _hell_?

It’s one of the most frustrating three hours of Kris’ life and Anton’s intent on re-checking the rest of Kris progress, making sure that it’s only the language centres. He’s muttering to himself as he goes, the words too quiet for Kris to be able to decipher.

“Kris? Eric’s on his way.” Anton says, slow and clear and after a moment of concentration, Kris nods to show his understanding, “I want you to stay here until he gets here, okay?” Kris nods again, slower this time.

Eric looks frazzled when he arrives, “Was in a meeting,” he explains with a smile before he and Anton are talking too quickly for Kris to follow. Kris watches Sidney’s face instead, the concern and confusion flickering over his features as an indication of how it’s going.

It seems like forever before Anton and Eric actually address him directly and Kris frowns, trying to force his brain to understand enough of the words to follow the conversation. They speak slowly, over exaggerating the words with miming hand gestures. “Kris, we need to open up your head this time, okay? So, we’re going to have to put you under.” Eric turns to Sid, “Sid, you can’t be in here for this part.”

“What? _No_. Why?” Sid demands, and Kris would be touched at Sidney’s concern if he wasn’t too busy freaking the fuck out.

“Kris is Cyborg, you know this, right?” Anton says patiently, “He’s part Organic too - his brain is entirely human - what makes Kris _Kris_. But his language centres are scrambled, so we’re going to have to have a look at the wires a little closer to his brain. It’s going to have to be done in a clean room; the same way if we were to open your head.”

“I want to be there. What if something goes wrong again?” Sidney says stubbornly.

“Necessary people only, Sid. We want to minimise the amount of germs in the room. The less people, the less chance of passing something on to Kris.”

“He’s Cyborg. Cyborg’s can’t get sick.” But he sounds uncertain, “Right?”

Anton nods, “Well, maybe not in the same way. But it can happen.” He gives Sid a smile, “It’s alright, Sid. We’ve done this hundreds of times. Kris’ll be fine. It’s completely safe.”

Sid glances over at him and Kris swallows, tries to school his expression into something less terrified. Tries to pretend he understood more than five words in that whole exchange. “It’s okay, Sid.” He takes a breath, repeats it, more to calm himself down than Sidney, “It’s okay.”

It takes a moment, but Sid nods, steps forward, moving in close, and for a second, Kris thinks Sid is going to kiss him. “Good luck,” Sid murmurs instead, pressing his forehead to Kris, squeezing the back of Kris’ neck with one warm hand, “I’ll be here, I promise.”

*

He blinks his way to consciousness and for a few breathless, terrifying moments, he has no idea where he is.

“Hey.”

Kris turns his head, winces a little, sore. Sid’s smiling at him from a chair by the bed.

“Glad you’re awake. How’s your brain?” Sid asks cautiously, “Can you understand me?”

“What?” Kris blinks at him, bewildered, feeling slow and confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I’d wait.” Sid’s smile wavers a little, “You remember that, right? You know where you are?”

It takes him a moment. The Centre. Rewiring. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I remember.” There’s a brief pause while Kris tries to blink away the fog in his mind. “Just a little dizzy.” He smiles, doped up and vague. “Oh, hey. I can understand you again.”

The smile Sid gives him is brilliant, overly pleased for something as simple as Kris being able to understand English. “That’s awesome,” he says, “They wouldn’t let me in with you.” There’s a bit of an awkward pause, “I was worried,” Sid says in a rush, like it’s something he doesn’t want to say.

“Oh.” How is Kris supposed to respond to that. “Thanks? I’m okay.”

Anton and Eric poke their heads around the door a few seconds later, preventing Kris having to find something awkward to say. “Hey, you’re awake.” Anton says happily, “Now the big question is, can you understand what I’m saying?”

“Just woke up.” Kris says with a smile. “English is back online.” 

“Excellent.” Anton says, looking relieved, “Sid, could you excuse us for a minute?” 

Sid looks a little startled at being asked to leave, but stands hurriedly, “Oh, yeah. Sure, no problem.” He smiles at Kris, “I’ll go get the car.”

Anton peppers Kris with questions while Eric runs his hands over Kris’ joints, making sure he can move them all the way they’re supposed to move. “Have you got someone to stay with you overnight?” Eric asks, with a frown.

“Uh.” Kris hadn’t really considered it, but it shouldn’t be that hard. “Yeah. I’ll find someone.”

Anton fixes him with a dubious stare. “Actually find someone, Kris. We mean it. We’ll mention it to Sid too.”

For some reason, that rubs him the wrong way, “He’s not my keeper.” Kris says, crankily. “I’ll call Flower. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s not like you’ve just had the equivalent of brain surgery or anything,” Anton says, rolling his eyes. “Roll over, if you can. We just want to check that the bottom wires are fusing like they’re supposed to.”

It’s a relatively short check up, and Kris is so goddamn sick of being at the Centre by the time Anton proclaims him okay to leave. “It’s another little setback, Kris.” He says, somewhat apologetic, “We’ll get there and you’ll get back on the ice eventually. But, you have to be patient, alright? Come back next week.”

He _hates_ this. The frustration of being injured only compounded by the stupid fucking complicated workings of his mechanical shell. And Sid, Sidney’s just making it _worse_ with his stupid eyes and his stupid face and the way he’s acting like Kris is something special; something _precious_. He lets the frustration percolate on the ride home, anger and fear and hurt and there are some days where he kind of wishes that his parents had never opted for Cybernetics. He’d do anything to not be considered this weird Terminator freakshow by everyone who finds out. 

Sid is silent as he drives back to Kris’ house, humming along with the radio, tapping his fingers on the wheel. Kris isn’t sure if he wants to kiss him or punch him and he can’t quite tell if he’s being irrational.

Sid parks, following Kris inside with a frown. “Are you okay?” He asks eventually, eyeing Kris with concern.

And Kris just can’t _take_ it anymore. “Why are you doing this?” He demands, slamming his bag down on the kitchen table.

“What do you mean?” Sid asks uneasily. “Helping you? You’re my friend. And you’re hurt-”

“You never did this shit for Staalsy. Or Flower. Cookie. _Anyone_ , You didn’t even do this for me when I was out last time. So, why the hell are you doing it now?

Sid frowns, like he’s not quite following. “Last time, I didn’t know-”

And that’s it. Kris has had enough. He’s not some _sideshow_. He’s sick of _everything_ right now being about his goddamn mechanical body. “You didn’t know that I’m a fucking robot? Is that it?”

Sid stares at him. “What the fuck? No, It’s not like that! What happened? You weren’t angry before!”

“Just get out, Sid.”

“Kris-”

“Thanks for the ride and all, but I’m not some circus freak or-!”

“That’s not why I’m here!” Sid looks pissed, “I can’t believe you’d _think_ that?”

“Really? Coz, I gotta tell you, from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like that’s exactly why you’re here. You’ve been pretty damn interested in my mechanics.”

Sid takes a breath, seems to be looking for the right words, “Yeah, Kris. I’m interested. Because I’ve never learned about this stuff, and you’re my friend and it affects you, why _wouldn’t_ I be interested? But that’s not why I’m doing this!”

“Why _else_?” Kris demands.

“It’s not-” Sidney breaks off, stepping forward, determined, and for a brief moment, Kris thinks he’s going to throw a punch. “I keep your secret, you’re not allowed to get angry at mine,” Sid says, voice shaking. And Kris doesn’t even have enough time to ask what the fuck Sid is even on about before Sidney’s mouth is on his own.

Kissing him.

Kris wrenches away from him, horrified, betrayal settling like a rock in his stomach. Sid was supposed to be _different_ to those asshole mechanophiles out there. He strips off his shirt, movements jerky and violent, “Is that why you’re here then? Want to see the rest?” Kris demands venomously, “Satisfy your curiosity about fucking a robot?”

Sidney stands there, motionless, eyes wide. “I-”

“Just get out.” Kris says, quieter this time, trying not to let his voice shake. He _knew it_ , it was always going to be too good to be true.

And Sid just stares for a moment, before snatching his keys off the table, “ _Fine_!” he snaps, and Kris doesn’t look up until he hears the slam of his front door.

*

What Anton doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He’s _fine_. So when his doorbell rings at eight that night, Kris storms to the door, fully prepared to tell Sid to go fuck himself. He’s somewhat more surprised to see Flower on the doorstep. “Sid... sent me?” he says with a grin. “Said you’re not supposed to spend tonight alone.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “So, I’m your date.”

“Sid should mind his own fucking business.” Kris snaps, but he leaves the door open, heading back into the lounge.

“Ooookay.” Flower says slowly, following him and closing the door behind him. “So, I’m assuming that’s why Sid isn’t the one here.”

“I’m fine.” Kris says, “Anton’s just paranoid. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Flower shrugs, “Well, I’m here now. And it’s fucking cold outside, so I’m staying.”

It’s a weird kind of awkward. Flower’s being... Flower, really, and it’s really hard to be angry when he’s telling stories from the practices Kris has missed, the new pranks Eric’s been playing on Jordy with Flower’s help.

When Kris’ phone rings, he looks down at it, debating whether to answer, Geno’s name flashing on the screen. He already knows what it’s going to be about, but he sighs and presses ‘Accept’ anyway. Geno’s voice is loud over the background noise of what sounds like a bar. “What you do to Sid?” He demands, sounding pissed.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“He’s sad. He’s drinking.” It’s accusatory, and Kris can’t help but get his hackles up.

“It’s his own fucking fault.” He snaps, before pulling his phone from his ear and pressing the end button. It starts buzzing again after ten seconds later and Kris silences it, switches it off and throws his phone carelessly onto the other couch.

Flower watches this all with a raised eyebrow. “So, you gonna actually tell me what the fuck happened between you and Sid?”

“No.” Kris says shortly, picking up the television remote and turning the TV on. He flicks it over to a sports channel. He doesn’t care what’s on, but he doesn’t want to talk about Sidney fucking Crosby.

“He’s drinking with Geno. You guys had a fight. What about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Flower shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ll make it up then.” He thinks for a moment, “He’s pregnant. No, _you’re_ pregnant! All these rewirings have been to implant an artificial womb. You’re creating the perfect hockey baby.” 

“Don’t be a dick.” But Kris is smiling a little, reluctantly.

“You know Geno’s just going to tell me anyway.” Flower wheedles and Kris relents a little. He knows it’s true.

“He kissed me.”

“About fucking time.” Flower says, rolling his eyes, “Like, seriously. It was getting pathetic. Why the fuck was that a problem? Don’t even pretend you didn’t want him to.”

“It wasn’t _like_ that.” Kris says fiercely. “He’s one of those fucking mechanophile’s. The creeps who get off on fucking Cyborgs.”

Flower kinda just stares at him for a moment, like Kris is the biggest idiot he’s ever met. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“No I’m not.” Kris snaps, annoyed. “He’s never shown an interest before. Then I have that stupid hit, and Sid finds out and then he’s suddenly around _all the fucking time_. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

“That it was really just bad timing? Jesus Christ, Kris. Sid’s been into you for _forever_.”

Kris really doesn’t want to talk about it. “Whatever.” He mutters, “Can we just watch some TV?”

Flower rolls his eyes, but lets it drop. “Fine.” he says, turning to the TV. “We’ll watch this enthralling game of... badminton. Seriously, dude? Badminton?”

*

It’s not that they’re not talking to each other. Not quite. But, when three practices go without Sidney skating over to chat, without Kris chirping from the sidelines, it’s pretty damn obvious.

Kris sighs when Max sits himself next to Kris in the locker room, knocking their shoulders together. If even Max’s noticed, it’s pretty dire.

“So. What’s up?”

Kris smiles over at him, “I miss skating.” He says. It’s not what Max is asking, but it’s not a lie either.

“Yeah. Probably. But what about Sid, eh?”

“Why would Sid miss skating?” Kris asks, being deliberately obtuse, even though he knows it’s only going to give him an extra thirty seconds wiggling room.

“Don’t be an asshole. You know what I mean.”

Kris can’t quite prevent himself from looking over at where Sid’s undressing on the other side of the room and he averts his eyes quickly, “Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah. I believe you.” He slaps Kris’ shoulder. “I’m coming around tonight whether you like it or not. Want me to bring anything?”

Kris just shrugs, there’s no point arguing with Max anyway. And, to be honest, without Sid around, he kind of misses the company. 

*

It seems like _months_ until he’s cleared to skate. Kris has been attending all his wiring and adjustment appointments alone. Anton only asked the first time, “where’s Sid?” and when Kris shrugged, not meeting his eyes, Anton simply raised an eyebrow and nothing more was said. 

So on Tuesday, a few weeks after their fight, Anton grins, running Kris through the battery of physical and cognitive tests that’ll give him a clean bill of health.

“You’re all set!” Anton announces, grinning.

“Seriously?”

“You’re cleared for skating. No contact just yet, but that should only be a week or so away.”

Kris feels better than he has in weeks, like a weight’s been lifted from his chest. He really fucking misses hockey and at this point in time, there’s not much that can happen to bring him down.

He heads home, feeling a whole lot like he’s walking on air. His skate bag’s been packed for weeks, sitting, waiting by the front door. He can _skate_.

He’s only been home for about ten minutes, changing to head to the rink, when the doorbell rings.

“Anton said you’re clear to skate.” Sid says when Kris opens the door, not bothering with ‘hello’.

“He called you?” Kris demands, can’t help feeling a little betrayed.

Sid looks a little awkward at that. “Yeah. About ten minutes ago. Said you might try going on your own.”

There’s not really much Kris can say, “Whatever,” he mutters, like he wasn’t planning on doing just that. “I’m going now.”

Sid picks up an equipment bag that Kris hadn’t noticed, “Figured.” Sid says with a small smile like a truce and Kris just shrugs, knows he can’t argue his way out of this one.

“Fine. I’ll drive.”

It’s tense and uncomfortable, unspoken accusations hanging over them like a raincloud on the way to the rink. Kris isn’t in the mood for small-talk, annoyed that Sidney’s even here for this. The first skate is always terrifying, Kris’ fingers clenching anxiously on the steering wheel. What if there’s something wrong and he doesn’t know it yet? What if the accident has messed with his equilibrium on the ice? He doesn’t want someone there if he fails. Especially not Sidney.

He doesn’t realise he’s jittering until there’s a warm hand on his knee and Kris jumps, glancing over at Sidney.

“Calm down,” Sid says quietly, “It’ll be fine, okay?”

Kris just nods, staring at the road, teeth clenched tight.

They’re silent heading into the locker room, lacing up. Kris’ chest tight with panic. “Interested in seeing the robot skate?” Kris says, keeping his tone neutral though the words are cutting, “Just to round off the whole experience?”

Kris sees Sidney’s jaw tense. “You know, did you maybe think that maybe the reason I did all that was because of _you_?”

He can’t help himself. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sidney sighs, frustrated. “You know what, nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. Just. I don’t fucking care what you are, Kris. I definitely don’t care that you’re Cyborg. So just fuck off, alright?”

“Why are _you_ pissed?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sid says sarcastically, “You know, maybe because my best fucking friend decided that I was the kind of asshole to hate someone based on how Organic they are. Or that I was some kind of fetish freak.”

Kris just shrugs. “Yeah. Well.” He can’t quite bring himself to apologise; still isn’t sure if he believes Sid anyway. “Look, let’s just skate, okay?”

They move in silence until they’re standing at the gate, Kris’ fingers holding tight to the door.

“Want me to go first?” Sid asks, the _just in case_ unspoken, and Kris shakes his head, tries to quell the heavy dread sitting on his chest. He doesn’t want to find out, wishes more than anything that Sid wasn't here to see this. He knows it's irrational - that the chances of Anton having fucked up something that would affect his skating is so minuscule that it's practically negligible, but he can't help but panic anyway.

"It'll be alright," Sid murmurs, stepping in close, hand pressed to the small of Kris' back. "Try. It's just us."

A jerky nod and Kris takes a breath, stepping out hesitantly on to the ice, heart racing. He takes a step, glides, another and _he's skating_. He laughs, testing his range, backwards and forwards, stops and turns, grinning so hard, his cheeks hurt.

Sidney appears to skate beside him, matching Kris’ pace. "Told you," he can't resist saying breathlessly, smile as wide as Kris'.

There's nothing Kris can really say so he shifts sideways, checking Sidney gently and laughing as Sid tumbles to the ice. "Gloating isn't nice." Kris points out, skating a quick little ring around him.

"Asshole." Sidney says, hauling himself to his feet, but he's smiling. "Let's grab our sticks and a puck, eh?"

Its an hour of keep-away, laughing so hard they fall over, ridiculous chirping and fancy stick handling that fails completely and it’s like the fight’s completely forgotten in the joy of simply skating.

Sid pushes him gently and Kris stumbles, falling on his ass, laughing until a shot of pain down his arm makes him clench his teeth, hiss in a sharp breath.

"Shit! Are you okay?!"

Kris stretches his arm out, tests the range of motion. "Yeah. I'm fine." he smiles up at Sid, holds out a hand for help up. "I’ve had harder checks from five-year olds."

Sid just laughs, hauls Kris to his feet. “I'm glad you're okay," Sid says, disarmingly honest, not letting go of Kris’ hand. "Not just now, I mean, overall. The whole thing."

And Kris can't remember why he was mad, why this seemed like such a bad idea, high on the feel of the ice under his feet, on _Sid_. "Thanks." Kris says awkwardly, "For. Y'know. Everything."

Sid's awfully close and Kris' pulse is racing, even as Sid murmurs a quiet, "I'm gonna do something really stupid now," and kisses him. It’s short. Sweet. And Kris isn’t entirely sure how he should feel about it. He wants this, he wants it _so bad_. Sid keeps his eyes closed, rests their foreheads together, whispering between them. “I didn’t do that because you’re Cyborg. I didn’t do that because I have some freaky kink. I did that because I’ve wanted to kiss you for two fucking years.”

Kris smiles, wide and happy, letting himself _believe_. “Really?”

Sid opens his eyes, smiles back, “Yeah. Really.”

“Me too.” Kris says, and kisses Sid again.

*

His first practice back is heralded with an appropriate amount of backslapping and gentle mocking. There’s still the few guys in the locker room who give him a wide berth, but Sid grins at him from across the ice, and out here like this, with the team, hockey stick in hand, Kris is pretty sure his life can’t get much better right now.

They have a long way to go, but maybe, maybe they’ll make it.

*

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic) Spare Change For Parts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/730050) by [letsgofriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsgofriday/pseuds/letsgofriday)




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